


Krolik

by iamocelost



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M, Ocelot is more scared of his feelings than anything, Torture, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 01:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13893690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamocelost/pseuds/iamocelost
Summary: Ocelot and Snake are captured by some MSF competitors. Torture and angst follows. Snake falls apart; Ocelot holds it together.





	Krolik

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme request:  
> BB and Ocelot get captured together (maybe Cipher? idk era and setup doesn't matter) and when vanilla torture doesn't break either of them, their captors figure they might break if they watch one another get absolutely wrecked.
> 
> Bonus: This affects BB way worse than it does Ocelot. 
> 
> Double Bonus: If they do manage to get out of it somehow, Ocelot's the one who pulls it off/has to comfort BB.

Snake didn’t actually see much of Ocelot these days.

In all honesty, he hadn’t expected to see Ocelot again after he’d broken with Zero, but he’d returned to a dingy bunkhouse in early 1972 to find the young Russian lounging in a corner, shooting the shit in Spanish with some idiot that died during his next foray with Big Boss.

Ocelot had smirked, waved a little white handkerchief in a joking surrender, and Snake had finally, irrevocably seen the Boss’s face. Ocelot’s offer -- playing the double agent once again, but answering to Snake this time -- was tempting to begin with, but after seeing the set of the Boss’s mouth on that face… Snake hadn’t been able to turn him away. The kid was so young and so raw, just like he had been when the Boss had pulled him up by his bootstraps.

“You wanna throw in with me?” he’d said, cigar in hand, sitting across from Adam on an upturned crate while the rest of his dogs of war pretended to ignore them. “That’s fine. But I won’t be your master. You do it because  _ you  _ want to.”

Ocelot had lost some of his bravado, shoulders hunkering down and gaze turning a little haunted. “I answer to no one but myself now,” he said vehemently, but there was a fervor in his eyes that Snake was becoming all too familiar with. He sighed and looked away -- it was the only thing he knew to do in the face of such devotion.

Snake didn’t actually see much of Ocelot these days. There was the occasional phone call, but more often he got letters, postmarked from around the world, with loosely coded messages about what their old pal Zero was up to at any given moment. It was a small miracle that Ocelot managed to write him at all, given how much he and his men moved around -- a testament to Ocelot’s ingenuity and skill as an intel operative. Sometimes, when one of those letters arrived, carried by a local villager through the rain to a tiny merc camp on the edge of some river in the middle of the jungle, Snake wondered if Ocelot was just showing off.

Snake really wished he wasn’t seeing Ocelot right now.

They’d agreed to meet, a rare face-to-face conversation. Snake had the uncomfortable feeling that Ocelot had bad news to deliver, wanted to force the man to tell him over the phone, but Ocelot obstinately refused, naming a cantina on the outskirts of Caracas and a date. Snake had left Kaz in charge at MSF’s current encampment on the Venezuela-Colombia border and taken one of their two jeeps on the ten hour drive -- plenty of time for idle speculation. His worst suspicions had been confirmed when Ocelot, eyes carefully glued to the bar in front of him, muttered, “It’s about Les Enfants…”

That was as far as he’d gotten before a dozen men with assault rifles poured into the bar. There had been fighting, gun fire, screams of pain as he broke someone’s arm -- somehow he’d even caught the slight sound of the cylinder spinning when Ocelot went to reload his revolvers -- but there was only so much two men could do.

And now? Now, Snake was watching an borderline unconscious Ocelot through an eye that was almost entirely swollen shut. Their captors -- two guards that they’d started calling “Blondie” and “Angel Eyes” -- had dragged him back in and chained his hands above him again, and the way Ocelot’s head was slumped forward wasn’t going to make it easy to breathe. “Adamska,” Snake called softly in Russian. “You need to lift your head, Adamska.”

Ocelot let out a wet, choked cough, then hauled his head up with a groan. Blood was dripping out of his mouth and down his chin, and Ocelot drew in a deep breath before half-heartedly spitting out of mouthful of gore that just dribbled onto the remnants of his shirt. “Tuco…” he wheezed in his mother tongue, “started on my teeth…”

Snake snorted. “Fucking amateurs,” he said, pulling a pained laugh from the other man. Snake was down to two nails on one hand and three on one foot, and he supposed that Tuco would start on his teeth too, next time he was taken from this cellar holding cell to the barn that served as interrogation room. It was like Tuco was using techniques he had heard of -- most likely from Snake’s work with the Colombianos, he thought sourly -- but had no practice in. The smash-and-grab approach had probably served him just fine when he was dealing with run-of-the-mill mercs or civilians. It wasn’t going to get him anywhere with them.

Ocelot coughed again, cleared more blood from his mouth, then rasped, “They’re still asking about MSF. Think I’m just another one of your lackeys.”

Snake nodded thoughtfully. That was good; this was just a competitor rather than a play by Cipher. It also meant there was a chance they’d start demanding some kind of ransom from Kaz, and there was no way Kaz would let this kind of insult to his business venture stand.

When he said as much, Ocelot huffed angrily. “Kaz, Kaz, Kaz,” he spat waspishly. “Gonna save us all, is he?”

Snake’s face screwed up in confusion, exacerbating the dull ache across his cheeks and jaw. “What do you mean by that?”

Ocelot dropped his head back, shoulders slumping as much as they could with his wrists tied up. “Nothing,” he said with a sigh. “I’m just grumpy is all."

_ Grumpy _ . Ocelot had just had his molars ripped out and he was  _ grumpy _ . An irritated fondness bloomed in Snake’s chest. Definitely the Boss’s son.

One of the things you learned about these kinds of situations, whether they were training or the real thing, was that time had tendency to get weird. Angel Eyes and Blondie alternated with two new guards -- “Yojimbo and Sanjuro,” Ocelot insisted on calling them -- but Snake wasn’t able to determine with any certainty how long they’d been there. After his fourth or fifth session with Tuco, he was returned to the cellar with round burn marks all over his torso and muscles still spasming from the electrical charge Tuco had been kind enough to subject him to. Angel Eyes jerked the bag off his head so hard that it snapped his neck in a way that should have been painful. More than anything, though, Snake was overwhelmed by the stench of piss and shit and sweat that filled his nose. 

“I think,” Ocelot said, still in Russian, once the guard had left, “I think that I am the morning and you are the evening.”

Snake managed a grunt, but it was just a noise to let Ocelot know he was alive, not a sign that he understood. Ocelot went on anyway. “The last two times they took me to Tuco, I think I heard the chachalacas doing their dawn chorus. Loud, screechy things.” 

Snake had no idea what a chachalaca was. 

“And just now,” Ocelot went on in the same slow way, “Angel Eyes didn’t wait until Blondie had closed the outside door all the way to open the door here, and I think I heard oilbirds. They’re nocturnal.”

Oh. Birds.

The birds were telling Ocelot the time.

“‘S colder.” Snake’s voice was barely above a whisper, even in his own ears, throat raw from screams he hadn’t been able to repress. “Colder now than when they took me.” They chained his wrists near the bottom of the wall this time, and he rolled until he was flat on his back.

Ocelot hummed from somewhere beside him. “Oilbirds means there’s probably a cave nearby.”

A cave could be good, if they got the chance to somehow slip their chains. It took more effort than he would have liked, but Snake eventually managed to open his eye and turn his head toward Ocelot. The younger man had his wrists locked behind his back and his legs pulled up to his chest. There were dark circles under his eyes, an amalgamation of bruises and sleep deprivation, and his blond hair was dark with dried blood and dirt.

There were things they both knew that they didn’t say -- that dehydration coupled with the torture was just going to make them weaker and slower by the hour. That if they were going to make a move, it had to happen soon, before they were too far gone for the adrenaline rush to give them enough of a pick-me-up to get somewhere.

“Yojimbo and Sanjuro are sharper,” Snake mused. The faint sound of Blondie laughing, a drawn-out guffaw that sounded like a dolphin in pain, underlined his statement.

“Angel Eyes and Blondie’ll be here for me next, right?” 

Snake grunted. “Early morning wouldn’t be ideal,” he added.

Ocelot sighed. “Not a lot of choice here. If we wait for night, you’ll be next to useless.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t.” Another unspoken thing: the subject took longer and longer to recover from the electroshock the more the interrogator employed it. If his heart didn’t stop, Snake was liable to be a puddle of jelly for a good few hours after the next time.

“Okay,” Snake said finally. “When they come for you.”

 

<><><><><>

 

Snake was a bad liar.

It wasn’t like Ocelot minded. If he was being really honest, he found Snake’s inability to be anything but genuine incredibly endearing. He always knew where he stood with Snake, and he did his best to return the favor. But there were also times when Ocelot knew Snake wasn’t going to be able to pull off some bit of deception, and he had no qualms with trying to turn it in his favor.

Snake had slept for a time, but as they got closer to morning -- or at least what Ocelot judged was morning -- he stretched out a leg to nudge the other man’s shoulder with his bare foot. They’d taken his boots, justifiably worried about the damage he might do with the spurs. He’d have to pull a pair off of Angel Eyes or Blondie once they were incapacitated. Taking off through the Venezuelan jungle barefoot was asking for some kind of rare and incurable disease. When they heard the people in the anteroom, Snake had slumped back down, eye closed, and Ocelot had rolled up on himself more tightly, feigning sleep as well.

Angel Eyes and Blondie came in.

Then Tuco, followed by another man, taller than anyone else in the room and swaggering like he owned the goddamn moon. Angel Eyes and Blondie were armed with rifles as usual. The stranger had a sidearm and a knife on his belt. Tuco had nothing immediately visible on his person, but Ocelot wasn’t fooled; there was no way he would have come in naked. 

“Time to wake up!” Tuco crowed in Spanish, clapping his hands. “It’s a bright and beautiful morning!” Ocelot peeped over his knees to glare him while Blondie gave Snake a kick in the ribs. The interrogator made a show of looking around the room, swatting the single light bulb with his hand to send it swinging, casting wild shadows around them. “This place is a shit hole, eh?” he said.

Ocelot’s jaw clenched. The man was an insult to his profession.

Tuco looked at the various metal loops that had been bolted along the walls and floor, a clear indication that this was a permanent encampment and not just a quick bivouac. Same thing with the set-up in the interrogation room/barn. These were, ostensibly, professional mercenaries, the kind that didn’t turn down wetwork. He and Snake had discussed it before the older man fell asleep, adding it to the column of things in their favor — a permanent camp meant lots of supplies and gear, perhaps just sitting around with no one watching it.

Stomping on the floor in the very center of the cramped space, Tuco looked back to the stranger. “Here, do you think?” he asked. “With arms in front?”

The stranger nodded, and Tuco snapped his fingers at the guards, who promptly began maneuvering their prisoners until Snake and Ocelot were kneeling on the ground facing each other, wrists cuffed between their knees. The interrogator stood over them, his head blocking the light. “You two,” he said, “you’re making me work too hard, and me working hard means you’re working hard too, yeah?” He laughed at his own joke. “So today, we’re going to have some fun instead.”

Shit. Ocelot was pretty sure he knew where this was going.

“Moises here,” he gestured to the stranger, who had a shit-eating grin pasted over his face, “is something of a connoisseur when it comes to white boy ass. He thinks that maybe he can loosen your tongues a bit. The question is just who’s going to be first.”

Ocelot schooled his face into an look of detached disdain, even though the thought of watching Snake get raped made his stomach clench painfully. He didn’t know exactly what Snake’s breaking point was, but when Snake started talking, it would all be truth. 

Not to mention he didn’t know if he could watch the man he loved be brutalized and not break himself.

Tuco pointed his finger at Snake. “Will it be you, Mr. Big Boss?” He studied Snake’s face, which showed nothing but cold defiance before searching Ocelot’s as well. The finger moved, like a compass needle finding north. “Or you?”

Snake’s expression flickered with something like despair and Tuco smiled maniacally, showing all the teeth he still had. “Ah, got a soft spot for your little cadet, do you?” He turned to Moises. “What do you think?”

The newcomer strolled over with a rolling gait that reminded Ocelot uncomfortably of Volgin, grabbing Ocelot’s chin with one huge hand and lifting his face to the light. “He’s a pretty one, isn’t he?” Moises cooed. “He’ll be fun to wreck.”

Ocelot refused to look away. Moises boxed his ear, knocking him off his knees. Before Ocelot’s vision cleared, he was hauled back up and the tattered remains of his pants were pushed down.

This was happening, he thought. Fine. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken it up the ass.

Ocelot set his fists against the floor, took a deep breath, and found something to stare at, a little place where the wooden planks had been marred so that it looked like a little rabbit. He resigned himself to the fact that he’d probably scream at some point, made peace with it. This was better than the alternative after all.

Moises kicked his knees out as wide as they would go, still bound up in his pants, then spread his ass cheeks wide, making a humming sound. Then he pulled Ocelot’s cock back between his legs to examine it. “Not bad,” he said, giving it a few pumps in an attempt to stir some life into it. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t respond.

Ocelot focused on that little rabbit as hard as he could. Maybe it was a cat instead? One of those Japanese bobtail cats…

Another pair of boots appeared in his peripheral vision. “You sure you wanna stick your dick in there,” Angel Eyes said. “He’s been sitting in his own shit for days.”

“A fair point,” Tuco said with put-on thoughtfulness. “Luis, go get some soap and water. I believe Moises brought his own tools as well.”

Blondie left, and people moved around the room. Ocelot stayed perfectly still, but he let his eyes cut up, just enough to catch a glimpse of Snake’s face. The older man looked unsure and vaguely ill, like his resolve was waffling.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Ocelot hissed in Russian.

John’s jaw clicked shut and he gave a tiny nod of his head.

Having his asshole washed for him was a new experience. Moises wasn’t necessarily gentle, but he was patient and thorough. The enema was disgusting, with water running down his thighs to seep into the fabric bunched around his knees and his soon-to-be rapist tutting in disappointed. “So unhygienic,” he chided as Angel Eyes and Blondie laughed. 

Definitely a rabbit, Ocelot decided. 

Moises spit directly on his hole, rubbed it in with his thumb. 

Ocelot did his best to relax, knowing what was coming.

It still hurt like a bitch.

Rabbit. Hare. Bunny.

Moises paused, balls deep, to readjust his grip on Ocelot’s hips. He felt like his guts were on fire.

Cony. Cottontail.  _ Lapin _ .

His ears started ringing, making him blessedly deaf to Moises’ grunts and the hard sound of their flesh slapping together.

_ Conejo _ .  _ Coelho _ .

It  _ burned _ . Instinctively, he tried to pull himself away, but Moises’ hands were unyielding. A small grunt escaped him.

_ Hase _ .  _ Krolik _ .

Moises picked up his pace, and there was a sudden sharp pain that Ocelot knew was broken skin.

_ Krolik. Krolik. Krolik. _

 

<><><><><>

 

Snake wished he wasn’t seeing Ocelot now.

He forced himself to stay still, to not struggle against his restraints. Any sign of discomfort on his part would give further credence to Tuco’s idea that this would work. He had turned his head away when Ocelot let out the first slight whimper, but Tuco had wrapped his hands around Snake’s face to hold him steady. “Come now,” he purred, “your little cadet is putting on such a lovely show. Why would you not watch?” Snake tried to jerk out of his grasp, and the interrogator dug nails into his skin. “Look away,” he spat in a low, dangerous tone, “and I’ll cut of his arm and fuck him with that.”

Once Moises was finished -- Snake didn’t miss the blood mixed with cum on his cock when he pulled out -- Angel Eyes and Blondie started bickering about who was next. Moises laughed, and Snake could hear him digging around in the pack he’d brought with him, but he kept his eyes on Ocelot, who had slumped over to plant his face against the floor, back heaving as he quietly gasped for air. When Moises came back, he hauled Ocelot up by the hair and slipped something into his mouth with straps that reached around to the back of his head, a metal ring that held Ocelot’s jaw open wide. “Now he can service both of you,” Moises said magnanimously.

His view was blocked by Blondie’s ass as he positioned himself to fuck Ocelot’s face, and for a moment Snake was guiltily relieved, until he heard the scream Ocelot couldn’t clamp down on when Angel Eyes took Moises’s place. Tuco was still behind him, but he let go off Snake’s head. “Tell me,” he said, keeping his mouth close to Snake’s ear, “are you usually the one inside him?”

Snake swallowed sharply, the thought completely revolting given the current context. His reaction made Tuco chuckle.

Angel Eyes came with a shuddering gasp and a long stream of obscenities, but Blondie seemed determined to take his time while Ocelot choked and gagged. When he finally pulled out with a satisfied sigh, Ocelot vomited a mix of semen and stomach acid that Blondie had to dance back to avoid. Ocelot had ducked down his head, practically rubbing his hair in the mess, to grab at the buckle behind his head and wrestle the gag off. He kept fighting when Moises stepped in to stop him, took a knee to the face, then got another hard smack with Moises realized Ocelot had managed to break his toy. Ocelot lay still when he hit the floor, hands balled together in front of his face, chest heaving in fast, short breaths.

Tuco leaned down to pat Snake’s cheek. “We’ll be back in a while.”

The door shut, and as soon as it shut, Snake’s shoulders fell and all the air rushed out of his lungs. He ran his eyes up and down what he could see of Ocelot, a careful catalogue of injuries: the bruises already darkening on his narrow hips, the weeping blisters on his wrists, the blood that oozed from one corner of his mouth…

The blood that had oozed from one corner of her mouth as she was dying in his arms.

He hadn’t been able to save her. 

He hadn’t been able to save him either.

“Adamska,” he whispered suddenly, “Adamska, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…” Once it started, the litany kept on, kept pouring out of his mouth in a hoarse rush of words that even he hadn’t heard from himself in years and then only after copious amounts of alcohol and behind locked doors. He tried to lean forward, pushed his arm as far as it would go in the shackles without tearing skin, but he still couldn’t quite reach Ocelot and that made him lose it a little more, tears falling as fast as the words and now he might throw up too--

“John!” Ocelot snapped. “I need you to shut the fuck up.”

Snake shut up.

Ocelot opened his hands, revealing a glint of silver. A piece of the broken buckle, Snake realized. “Think you can… pick the cuffs with this?” Ocelot said between panting breaths.

Snake blinked fiercely, freeing the last of the salt water from his lashes, and steeled his stuttered pulse with a deep inhale. “Yeah,” he said, voice still a little raw. “Yeah, I can do that.”

 

<><><><><>

 

Once Snake had them out of the cellar, actually escaping the merc camp was child’s play, which stung like salt in a wound after what Ocelot had gone through.

On the other hand, he wasn’t in much shape to help Snake with the heavy lifting, so he wouldn’t complain too much.

Instead, as he fired sporadically at the handful of men that chased them on foot while Snake drove their stolen truck, he complained about what a bitch it was going to be to get the GRU to pay for his dental work. “They’re going to want a damn report,” he yelled over the sound of the diesel engine gunning along the rough, pitted trail. The jostling was too much on his ass, and he was perched on his knees, using the seat back as a modicum of cover. “It’s not like they won’t pay, but they’re going to make be write a damn report and we’re all gonna know it’s all lies anyway, but Vasiliev does it just to remind me that he’s the boss—”

Snake cut him off. “Are you okay?”

Ocelot grit his teeth. “Just keep driving and I will be.”

They flew through the first three villages they passed, then after dropping the truck off a cliff past the fourth, doubled back into town once the sun had fallen. Ocelot grabbed clothes off a nearby line while Snake hotwired a beat-up jeep, and they were off again. Snake drove with his knuckles white against the wheel and Ocelot curled up in the passenger seat, the occasional grunt of pain escaping his silence. He trusted that Snake knew where they were, where they were going, as he leaned his head against the door and let his mind go fuzzy. 

Shortly before dawn, Snake helped him climb into a second floor hotel room, and Ocelot headed straight for the bathroom to scrub the filth and blood from his skin. He wanted to lick his wounds in solitude, but Snake refused to let him be alone, sitting on the toilet and applying little dabs from a bottle of vodka lifted at a corner store to his own cuts. When Ocelot’s hand emerged from behind the shower curtain, Snake handed the bottle over without question. Ocelot took a mouthful, swished, and spit, standing there with his mouth hanging open as the last bits of blood dribbled from his gums and waiting for the sting to pass. He took another mouthful and swallowed, then another, trying to brace himself for what was next, but before he could tip any of the alcohol into his ass crack, Snake jerked the curtain open.

“Damn it, Adam,” he growled. “Let me help you.”

Ocelot glared at him, ready to spit and hiss and fight like a cornered and injured animal, but he stopped himself when he saw the desperate look on John’s face. “Please,” he repeated, voice both softer and coarser, “let me help you.”

So Ocelot let him. He let him dab gently at his punished anus. He let him wrapped bandages around his chafed wrists. He even let him rub the kinked muscles in his neck, carefully maneuvering around the bruises and lacerations. A little later, as they lay on the bed with the lights out and the curtains drawn against the sun, he let John whisper, “I’m sorry, Adam.”

“Not your fault, John,” Ocelot said with a sigh. He rolled over onto his side. “Nothing you could have done.”

He was already halfway to asleep when Snake muttered fiercely, “It should’ve been me.”

When Snake let out a hoarse moan in his sleep, Ocelot shuffled over to pull the other man close, one hand rubbing smooth circles against his chest until he settled back into peace.

Ocelot had seen Snake broken, back when he was wallowing in the alcohol-soaked depression that followed Operation Snake Eater, before the Patriots had given him a renewed sense of purpose. He hadn’t expected to ever see it again, especially over something like a two-bit hack’s torture session.

Or perhaps Ocelot had grown too cynical, too hardened against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. This was, after all, just another in a long line of indignities he’d suffered in the course of his work. He was sure there would be nightmares eventually, and when they came he would temper them with a careful combination of drug use and self-hypnosis.

They slept. They woke. They drove. As they approached San Cristobal, with MSF waiting another hour beyond the city, Ocelot said, “Drop me in some shady corner of town.”

“Are you kidding?” Snake answered, looking over with furrowed brows. “You need medical attention and rest. You’re coming with me.”

Ocelot rolled his eyes. “I’m not blowing my cover for this.”

“Fuck your cover,” Snake spat. “Fuck Zero. Just come with me.”

“You said you wouldn’t be my master, John,” Ocelot drawled. “Drop me off somewhere in town.”

Snake didn’t argue anymore, but he made his opinion clear with a frown that made his empty socket look more grotesque than usual. He stopped the jeep in a neighborhood with dark alleys, growing darker as the sun went down. “Here?” he asked gruffly.

“Here’s fine.” Ocelot opened the door, eased himself out onto the street. “I’ll write in a few weeks.”

“Adam.” Ocelot turned back to face Snake, saw the same longing look Snake had once given his mother. “Come with me,” he begged.

He may have named himself after a predator, but right then he was a rabbit, frozen to the floor by the clear concern and devotion in John’s eye. It was tempting,  _ so tempting _ , to give into the tenderness that was promised, to let himself pretend for a little while that John could be his, milk the man’s guilt as long as he could, shore up some memories for the dry season.

But he knew that it would only be an illusion, one that wouldn’t last beyond a handful of days. And the whole time, there would be Kazuhira fucking Miller, hovering at the edge of his vision and on the tip of John’s tongue.

So he bolted, ran for a warren far from any snakes, and the whole time his heart beat an accusation: “Kro-lik. Kro-lik. Kro-lik.”

**Author's Note:**

> Blondie, Angel Eyes, and Tuco are characters from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Yojimbo and Sanjuro are Toshiro Mifune films; Yojimbo inspired A Fistful of Dollars, so of course Ocelot watched it (side-note: you should watch it too).
> 
> "Krolik" is, of course, Russian for "rabbit."
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
